Moonless
by Melancholy's Child
Summary: The first kiss was for him, the Vicomte who needed saving. The second kiss was for her because she needed to be sure. This night, she searches for the man she wants, and she will not be deterred. Takes place after the musical. Lightly LND-inspired ("again and then again"). Rated M for strong sexual situations. E/C. One-shot.


The first kiss was for him, the Vicomte who needed saving. The second kiss was for her because she needed to be sure. This night, she searches for the man she wants, and she will not be deterred.

This one-shot takes place after the musical. It is Erik/Christine, and rated R for strong smut. I guess you could say it's lightly inspired by Love Never Dies? Don't worry; I'm still working on "Choices that Define Us," but this was begging me to write it first.

For Wheel of Fish, because reasons!

* * *

 **Moonless - a one-shot**

" _Please_ , Madame."

I hate the pleading tone my voice had taken, but she cannot deny me any longer. For two days I have begged she give me word of my Phantom, my Maestro, but she closes her lips against me.

I understand why. I left him there beneath the opera, left him to the mob. I tried to go back, but Raoul took my hand, and I knew I had to first get him to safety. When I returned the next morning, the opera house had already partially burned to the ground. My angel was not there.

I will no longer be ignored. I must speak with him, must see him. I must know that he is safe. My last image of him still haunts me – his wretched face wet with tears, his malformed lips curled upward at the edges, his nod that I should leave him. He had been driven near to madness from his want of me, and I had been too caught up in the past to see it.

I fall to my knees before her, not caring that I dirty my skirt. I grab onto her hem. "I love him!" I cry.

She tries to jerk her dress away, but I cling to her. "No more games, Christine. Any more rejection from you will surely be the death of him."

"Then he is alive!" I climb to my feet, intent on wrenching the information from her, but she is already turning away to scribble upon a piece of paper.

When she pressed it into my palm, I read an address.

"The train station?" I ask, bewildered.

She nods. "There are several passenger cars out of service on the edge of the rails. I know not which one, but he was still there just this morning. The food I left for him was gone."

I am already at the door, grasping the handle.

"Christine!"

I pause.

"Please be safe. It will be dark soon. I… do not know how he will react when he sees you."

I nod, not wanting to waste any more time on words, and I am out the door.

It is not proper that a woman should wander the streets of Paris unescorted at any hour of the day, and especially not at night. I care not. When have I ever concerned myself with proprietaries?

I regularly met with my Maestro in my dressing robe, even after I knew he was a mere man. He terrified me, he _thrilled_ me, with his overwhelming presence, his utter maleness that washed over my senses and stole my breath away. His hands were cold but his body, when it pressed against my back in his underground kingdom, or when I pressed myself against him during _Don Juan_ , was fire hot.

I have not forgotten how his hands trembled each time he touched me… or even came a hair's breath from placing his skin against mine. Once he had discarded his angelic facade, he had shuddered whenever he had grown close to me.

He _was_ only a man, and a man who had never touched another before me. A man who had never kissed his lips against another's before I had stolen that moment from him. The first kiss had been for Raoul, in a desperate attempt to save his life. He had tasted so differently from my fiancé, his lips dry and cool, the bloated side pillowy against my own lips. I had not been able to relax into the first kiss, and our teeth had clicked together.

But that second kiss…

As I walk briskly through the night, I touch my gloved fingertips to my lips.

The second kiss had been for _me_.

I find the train station. Even at this hour, it is still alive with people loading and unloading the cars, but I head away from the crowds, ducking through a gate and stepping my way to the shadows of unused train cars further away. The noises of the station die away, leaving me blanketed in the noises of the night. I hear the creak of wood upon metal as the wind picks up and pushes against the abandoned bulk of the cars. Unseen insects come alive.

I know not his real name. Each time I open a small door at the back of a car, I whisper what I have always called him: "Angel?"

At the fifth empty space, I begin to lose my hope that he is actually here. I know Madame Giry would not have steered me wrong, but he might have fled from this place after spending so many days here. He might have jumped aboard one of the moving trains and left this city.

The thought that he is truly gone causes a choking lump to rise within my throat. As I check a sixth car and then a seventh, my tears are flowing freely. I do not bother to wipe them, for more will surely fall. I never got a chance to thank him for molding my voice. I never got a chance to tell him all the words I had wanted to say in that final moment between us.

I never got to _show_ him…

At the eighth car, I open the door into yet another tomb of utter darkness. I can barely squeeze a whisper from my closed throat: "A-Angel?"

Nothing responds.

I squeeze out another fresh batch of tears, and I can stand this no longer. I fall to my knees, my thick skirts billowing around me. I can tell there are wooden benches to either side of me, as this must be an old passenger car. The drapes are drawn across each of the windows, cutting out any remaining light from the faraway station.

The wind pushes at the door, and a sudden gust slams it shut behind me, almost catching my cloak in its hold. I enfold my face in my hands, letting my tears soil the silk of my gloves.

I can see nothing, not even the piles of my dress beneath me. So when I hear the scrape of boot upon wood, I quiet my sobs and stare into the blackness. I should be afraid of who might be there, but I want it to be only one person, one man.

"Angel?" I call again. My eyes blindly search, starting to adjust, and I see a shadow move among shadows. "Angel!"

I hear the words drift across the space of the aisle, whispered into the darkness, cracking with a disused voice. "I am no angel." And then, growing stronger, wrapping me in its familiar smoky aura: "You should not be here."

I move closer on my knees, feeling some kind of dirty carpet now. "I have only just found you." And I begin to cry anew, trying to wipe away the tears with my now dusty gloves, likely making a mess of myself.

Boots pad softly to stand before me, and I hear the creak of older bones as he crouches. He wears a white shirt, the sleeves a blurry paleness in the dark. I blink and they blend with the darkness. It is too dark! Oh, how I wish I could see him now. His eyes had always betrayed his every emotion, and I begin weep all the harder, partially from relief that he is actually here.

"Why are you crying?" he asks softly, his breath fanning my face. He must be close, but I do not dare to reach out him yet lest I scare him away. I smell familiar scents of damp and smoke, of ink and the sweet apple he must have eaten that day.

"I thought I would not find you," I confess. "I searched and searched, and now that I did, you want to send me away?" I choke back an audible sob, feeling foolish. What if his want of me has lessened these past two days? Now that I am free to follow him, I do not know what I would do if he sent me away.

Clothing rustles, and something icy touches my cheek. I gasp, and it darts away, but I think quickly, grabbing onto what is his hand, his fingers cold and sinewy and strong. I press his palm against my cheek – _yes, please, here_ – and cup his hand with both of mine to keep it there.

The pace of his breathing increases. "You feel so real," he confesses, wonderment in his tone.

My angel believes I am a dream?

"I _am_ real," I tell him. I take the tip of one of my gloves in my teeth and pull it from my hand, then press my palm over the back of one of his hands. His papery skin begins to warm beneath my touch.

We have touched hands many a time before, but I hear his choked cry at the contact. He tries to pull back but I hold fast. When his hand slips free of my cheek, I take it and kiss his bony knuckles, pressing my lips to his skin to show him just how real I am.

"Christine," he says, my name full of promises upon his tongue. I want to chase it with my own. I want to be closer.

I scoot across the floor, and he must still be crouching upon the balls of his feet. Two knees jut to either side of me, and I move between them, keeping a grip on his hand. One knee lowers to dig into my dress against my thigh, no doubt as he is trying to rise to his feet, but I place my free hand upon this knee, and he instantly stills.

"Please, _stay_. I promise I am real." I slide my hand higher up his leg and grasp the bunched muscle there, as though clinging to him would keep him here. I know he could easily shrug me off if he tried, and I want to give him a reason to stay.

" _Why_ are you here?" he asks throatily, and at least he must finally believe I am no dream. He is kneeling before me, and although I cannot see him, his presence is overwhelming. Even on his knees, he towers over me.

I begin to shake, my body quivering beyond my control. My journey here is starting to catch up to me, and I am aware of just how cold I grew in the night, how much I am risking just to be here. I want so badly to spill my heart to him, but I fear what he might do with it.

He slides his hand free of mine, and I give a little cry, but then a soft cloth is touching my face. With the upmost tenderness, he wipes my cheeks and dries my eyes.

"Will you not answer, Christine?"

His hands hover above my shoulders, and I can feel the brush of them before he clasps my upper arms. He runs his hands down the length of my arms atop my thick cloak, and back up again until he touches my head through the wool fabric. The sensation, even though the layers of clothing, spurs me into action.

I want to give him an answer.

My hand still grips his thigh, and after taking off my remaining glove, I shift my other hand to find his other knee. Together, they travel upwards, following the long lines of his legs until I discover his waist. He is lean as always, his torso devoid of softness, the diaphragm of a man too busy with life to bother with much food. He twitches at my roaming hands, and his fingers dig into my arms. Oh, how easily he could break me, in so many ways I could shatter under him, but I press onward.

I find his waistcoat, the embroidery rough under my fingertips. Quickly now, in case I get lost exploring, I use my hands to map his chest. My fingers find the cold skin of his neck above his collar, and his throat bobs as he swallows. His jaw is smooth, and when I find the beginning swell of his lower lip, he speaks my name in question.

I give him my answer.

He tastes like I remember, like the darkness around us and the crisp lake he often crossed. I taste the hint of apple, and something else that I can only catch a glimpse of in this close-mouthed kiss. I stay away from the deformed side of his mouth, not because I am repulsed, but because I fear scaring him away.

I can tell he wears no mask.

His lips are stiff beneath mine, immoveable as a mountain. I pull back enough to caress my damp lips over his dry ones, trying to coax a reaction.

I want to taste _more_.

I part my lips and lash out the tip of my tongue to sample the corner of his mouth.

A sound rises from within his chest, a rumbling growl mingled with a gasp. His hands on my arms thrust me away, and unbalanced, I fall backwards, my skirts tangled around my legs. While I am trying to right myself, he skitters away into the darkness, so far away that I cannot feel his closeness.

"Please, come back, Angel!" I call out.

"I am _no angel!_ " His fury wraps around me, lashing out like a wind, his voice echoing off the boundaries of the train car.

I push back into a sitting position. "Then give me a _name_."

"You need no name." His wrath pounds off the walls, snarling in my ear even though I know he must be as far from me as possible.

How do I entice him back to me? I stare into the black sea with a bold look, unsure if he can see in the dark better than I can. "Give me a name, so that I might whisper it against your lips."

And he is back crouching before me again, his knees tucked to either side of my skirts, pinning me to the floor. Like I would run away! I quiver but not from fear. Two fingers grasp my chin, tilting my face upward.

"You play with a ghost, my dear," he says, his breath upon my face once again.

"I play no games," I reply.

His other hand brushes my hood from my hair, freeing my curls to his touch. I shiver once more at the light ministrations, as though he thinks I will leave at any moment. I clench my hands in my lap, not daring to touch him just yet lest I am unable to stop.

"And you are no ghost," I add, his fingers moving to my throat as I speak. "Give me a _name_."

He strokes my throat, the pads of his fingers rough. I can already feel desire pooling within me, a strange quickening I have never felt except with him.

He finally speaks: "Erik."

"Erik," I repeat, and within those two syllables, he shifts closer and gives me the barest touch of his lips against mine.

A kiss, freely given. I hold still and commit to memory that first caress. He moves back although his hands, now shaking slightly, still hold onto me.

"You _must_ leave," he insists. "Too long have I been in this space, too long have I starved for a glimpse of you." A thumb dips beneath the clasp of my cloak to run across the edge of my collarbone. "I am a hungry man, Christine, and I cannot be expected to remain a gentleman any longer."

I grasp his wrist, lowering it. "Then do not."

He growls, the low sound felt within my body, but he does not pull his hand back from my bodice. So many layers exist between us, but I can feel his icy touch mold around my right breast for a brief moment before he snatches his hand back.

"You dare test how well I can resist temptation," he accuses, even as he undoes the clasp of my cloak. He fans the thick fabric behind me across the floor, and returns his hands to roaming about the expanse of my skin above my bodice.

I know where this path will lead. It is I who will light the way. "How can it be temptation when I give myself freely?" I want to push away his doubts, so I rise on my knees to press my lips to his again.

This time, his lips are pliable, ready for a kiss, and they warm quickly. His lithe fingers dip into my hair and release pins, causing curls to cascade down my back. I want to return his touches so badly, and I cup both sides of his face. As I expected, he tries to draw away, but I clutch him harder to me, unrepentant that my blunt nails dig into his cheekbones. I relish the feeling of one smooth cheek contrasted with the unnatural ridges and roughness of the other.

"Christine, how can-"

"I know who I am with," I state, and his lips are back upon mine, this time with a new boldness. Our teeth click together until he changes the angle, tilting our faces so that our lips might meld together just so. The warmth of his tongue lashes, inviting, and I meet him with my own as… something… begins to heat between my legs.

Oh, he has always been a quick study.

I know the basics of how things are between a man and a woman. The ballet rats used to whisper amongst themselves, and once I stumbled upon Juliette with a man between her legs, his hips digging into hers, his buttocks straining as he drove against her. Somehow, we could be joined together, part of him inside part of me. I wonder what _he_ might feel like.

I do not know how to ask for what I want, so I trail my hands down his waistcoat to the line of his pants. My palm brushes between his legs and something hard and hot meets my hand.

His fingers, like steel, grip my wrist and stop me. "You do not know what you are doing," he snarls.

His breaths come out in harsh pants. I remember how he had confessed his lack of experience to me that night beneath the opera. His body is strung as tightly as strings upon a violin, and I want to give him peace, to banish all of his ugly thoughts about himself from his mind. I am here because I want _him_.

Using my free hand, I follow the line of his taut thigh until I find what I seek, that hard length rising between his legs. This, _this_ is what it means to be a man, and I want to show him I am not afraid, that I accept all of him, even this. An angel he is no longer, but it is the man that I want, _Erik_ that I want. I run my palm across the top of the hardness, marveling at the rigidness of it, and a hiss escapes from between his teeth.

For a moment, his grip loosens, and I take the opportunity to snake both of my hands to his trousers. I am a woman; I am used to complicated clothing, and the two buttons of his pants are easy to undo. He must be stunned for he does not try to hinder me, and I tug loose the drawstring of his undergarment and slip my hand inside.

 _Here_ , he is warm, his taut skin pulsing in my hand. I am amazed at the silkiness of his exposed flesh, of how firm this part of him is. I want to map with my eyes what I feel with my palm, but I settle for running my hand up and down the length of him.

His breath catches in his throat, and his long fingers flex around my wrist. Is he trying to pull my hand away or encourage further movement? I squeeze with greater brashness, twisting the top within my palm. Soon, I feel a warm fluid coat my fingers, and he shoves me away, spinning to put his back to me. Oh, how I wish I could see him. I can hear him make odd groaning pants, and the sounds are delicious to my ears.

"Erik?" I call, unsure if I have hurt him.

After a moment, he catches my hand and cleans it off with his folded handkerchief. His own hands are shaking, and when I place a palm against his chest, his heartbeat skitters wildly.

"Are you… all right?"

He barks a laugh at that. "More than, my dearest."

More than all right? I frown and begin to ask for clarification, when he suddenly throws me to the floor. One of his arms catches me under the head so I do not bang it upon the carpet, while his other comes up to cover my mouth. I lay stretched in the aisle, and he lowers himself to my side, the long length of his body against mine. I settle one of my hands on the jut of his hip, and I can tell he has righted his pants.

"Hush a moment," he says, removing his hand and whispering the words from his mouth to mine, which is easy since we are so terribly close.

A second later, a light flashes across one of the windows, a glow dull through the drawn curtain. I stiffen and lean my body closer to him; I feel his mouth curve upward at the corner. We lay there facing each other, breathing each other's air. The light outside the passenger car fades away, and after we wait longer, Erik shifts.

"A nightguard," he explains. "He will make only the one round tonight."

"I see." I can take his mouth so close to me no longer. I tilt my head and part my lips, and he is ready this time, meeting me kiss for kiss.

Rising upon an elbow, he leans over me, pressing me into the floor with his welcome heavy weight. His brazen mouth devours me in ways he never has before, daring to dance his tongue with mine. I am swept up in the sensation of his thin lips contrasted with the wide stretch of his deformed side; and I love this uniqueness of him. Feeling bolder, I sweep a hand across his forehead and bare scalp. He is not wearing his typical wig either, and I relish the feel of his soft, sparse hair. I wish I could will him never to cover it again.

The warmth in my lower belly is building again. I break away to murmur against his mouth, "What happened earlier?"

He hesitates. My hand that touched him is sticky, and I raise it to my face. The scent of him is thick and heady, and in a second of utter curiosity, I stick out my tongue and lick the pad of one of my fingers. A new taste assails my taste buds – salty and bitter and _him_.

Another rumble sounds from his chest. There is little way he knows what I have just done unless he _can_ see in the dark. Heat springs across my cheeks, and I wonder if he can see _that_ too. Still, I wait for a reply.

He gives one, carefully choosing his words: "A man's… pleasure."

I squirm, tightening my thighs. One of his hands lands on my hip, matching the placement of mine on his, and the largeness of his palm covers my curve in a way that seems perfect. I search for what words to say. How can I ask how such pleasure felt? How can I ask him to touch me in the way I touched him, that I _want_ him to do so?

I start to speak, but he gathers himself up to his feet, pulling me along with him.

"The floor is not the most comfortable," he says. "Shall we sit?"

I nod, for I am sure he can see it, and he guides me to one of the benches lined up in rows along either side of the aisle. I hear him fold himself into a sitting position. As he tugs me to sit beside him, I misjudge the distance in the dark and find myself perched atop his lap. His body is large beneath me, his knees stretching past mine. I can feel the hotness of his breath against my neck. Immediately, a hand comes to rest on my corseted waist to still me in place, and I place my hands upon the soft linen of his shirtsleeve to anchor myself.

"Mademoiselle," he says softly into the shell of my ear. "There is space enough for both of us upon this bench."

"Perhaps," I quip, "I wish to discover what a woman's pleasure might be like."

He grows still at that for so long, I fear I have offended. Should a woman be so wanton and carefree with her speech about such matters? His other hand settles upon the nape of my neck and brushes aside the curls that hang there. His lips press against the sensitive skin of my neck as he holds me tight against him.

"What would I know about such secrets?" he murmurs against my neck.

He lets me take his hand and guide it to the swell of my breast, mirroring my earlier behavior. "We could find out."

Instead of snatching back again, this time he lingers, feeling the shape through my corset. His fingertips slide upward to my collarbone, painting a path across the twin globes pushed upward by the boning.

"You are so soft here," he whispers, and I tremble. "Are you this soft everywhere else… my dearest Christine?"

 _Find out_ , I want to say, but the words catch in my throat as his hands find the top button of my gown's bodice located just above my bust and flick it open. I so desperately want his hands upon me. He has always been so cautious with touch, and I understand why. He has learned to fear touch, to see it as pain and never based in desire.

 _I_ desire him.

It has taken me a long time to realize this as desire and not fear. When my body shakes before him, it is because his presence overwhelms me. When I feel a ball of nerves gather low in my belly, it is because I long for his touch, not because I fear what he will do when he does. When I struggle to meet his fierce eyes, it is because I worry that the passion I see there, the adoration, will undo me.

I wait, frozen to see if he will continue. I want to ask him to do so, but I do not want to seem uncouth by begging. I have not yet reached that point.

Fortuitously, he releases a second button, and then he continues his way down my bodice until the satin fabric parts across my chest, revealing my white corset. He peels the bodice back, removing it from my shoulders and sliding it down each of my arms. Instead of tossing it somewhere, I sense him draping it over the bench seat in front of us.

I cannot see anything in this thick darkness, but I know what _he_ can now see: the tops of my chemise above my corset, my corset itself, and the several layers of skirts which tie at my back. My chemise is held up with two straps, and I feel him lower these so that my shoulders are completely bare. His lips follow, kissing a path from my ear down the slope of one of my shoulders, while the fingertips of his hand explores the other. The skin now exposed is nothing the world has not seen before, but I am cast into flames at his burning touches. His teeth bite at my shoulder, and a wet tongue laps in apology when I jump.

And I am squirming upon his lap, my body moving unbidden. I grip the legs of his pants beneath me. I can feel the line of one of his thighs bony beneath my backside, and I want more of him, more contact. I reach to begin to untie the skirt of my dress, but he bats me away.

His voice is in my ear, soft and purring. "Do you realize how many times I have envisioned being able to undress you?"

I shudder at the thought. Obediently, I return my hands to his legs, but he is guiding me to stand between his knees, which are two points jutting to either side of me. I clutch the back of the bench in front of us, which is now covered with my bodice, and stare into darkness. He is at my waist, tugging upon straps, and my overskirt gives way, puddling at my feet. He leaves it there, and I imagine he is studying the revealed bustle across my backside. Snaking around my waist, his fingers undo the tie there, and the heavy cage gives way. This, he tosses onto a different bench. Two more tugs, and my petticoats loosen and join my skirt upon the floor.

He is pulling me back upon his lap, my back flush against his chest. I am glad only in my undergarments, and while there are still several layers separating us, I can begin to feel the heat of his body beneath mine. My heart pumps within my chest, and my hands are shaking as they rejoin upon his thighs to steady myself.

His lips return to my ear, teeth scraping across the shell. "Tell me to stop and I shall."

"Never," I whisper.

That seems enough for him. Emboldened, he slips off each of my shoes, and leans back into the bench. He spreads his knees, which causes my own legs to widen atop his. I lean fully against him for support, my head upon his chest, and I am sure he can feel the pounding of my heart. I am not nervous, not exactly.

He finds the edge of my chemise which is rucked up around my knees and dips beneath, and he quickly finds the gathered legs of my drawers blocking his path to skin. "Too many layers," he titters, and he begins to explore the shape of my legs beneath these thin pieces of linen, not much left to the imagination. I know my legs are long and strong, and I have sometimes been self-conscious of the curve of my thighs, which are not meant for a ballerina's delicate silhouette. Erik does not seem to mind, groaning his appreciation against my neck as he traces the inside of my thighs.

A cool touch finds the upper inside of my thigh where the slit in my drawers begins. We gasp in unison, and instead of retreating, he surges upward beneath my chemise. The rough pads of his fingertips discover the edges of the linen's opening, and then he is touching the delicate skin between my legs, and I am set aflame.

He shifts upon the bench, widening his legs, which forces my thighs to spread wider for his eager touch. His fingers skim up and down my folds, feeling the curls hidden there and the softest of skin beyond, the place even I have never fully explored. With a growl, he wrenches up the hem of my chemise and cups me there fully. My hips undulate without my consent, desperate for more contact, trying to grind upon him.

"Oh my Christine," he pants into my neck. Through the thin layers I wear, I can feel him growing again, his hardness pressing into my hip.

"Please, oh please," I breathe, and he obliges, surveying the depths of my body with lithe, strong fingers.

His touch begins to drive me to insanity. He uses one hand under my thigh to open me up even further to his whims and hold me there, and his fingers press and slide against my flesh. The skin here is wet for him, and he gathers it upon his fingers to run slickly across my outer folds. He finds the center point from whence I ache the most, and when I buck against his hand, he shifts his focus there, flicking that tender bud.

"Erik!" I cry, and I am not sure what I say afterward, incoherent phrases. I am now beyond pride, and I know I beg him for _something_ , anything, to release this fire building inside of me.

He pushes the breadth of his palm against that point between my thighs, his skin now heated. He rubs in constant swirls, and I arch my back. Then he slips a single finger inside of me.

"So soft, so lovely," his voice whispers into the spaces around us. "So tight around my finger."

The noises that emerge from my throat are foreign to my ears. The heel of his palm presses to my core, his finger moves within me, stroking my inner walls, and a single finger slips between my buttocks.

I come apart, screaming his name in a strangled cry, seeing sparks in the blackness of the passenger car. My body shudders, a light sweat breaking out across my skin. He holds me as I keen, pulsing around his fingers, convulsing in ways I cannot control.

When I finally slump against him breathlessly, he slides his fingers free and turns so I am sideways across his lap, cradled within his arms. He presses comforting kisses to my hair, my temple, my shoulder. Neither of us speaks, and maybe neither of us knows what to say after such a moment.

I came here for his kisses, for his touch, and I have shared both with him. No matter what, I am changed, and I know I can never go back to how I used to be. I also know I cannot remain separated from him.

There is more to learn about what happens between a man and a woman.

And I want to find out _all_ of its mysteries.

I squirm a bit in his lap, feeling the rising bulge that is his manhood against my thigh. He suddenly hisses and pushes me gently to the edges of his knees, away from that telltale sign that he is aroused. Even though I have been sated, I feel the ache between my legs returning. He has previously slipped a single finger inside that hidden part of me, and I desperately want to know what _he_ would feel like instead.

When I reach for him to make my intent clear, he encircles my wrist in a grip that is firm but not painful.

"No, Christine."

"W-Why?" I feel less sure than I did at first. Maybe he truly does not _want_ to do that with me?

Perhaps he is afraid, like I once was before I understood my feelings toward him. I rest my hands on his shoulders, keeping them above a space so that he feels safe with me again. In this moment, shyness overtakes me. I am well aware of my state of undress, that my chemise hangs off my shoulders, that my drawers are still visible under my undergarments. I can feel his searching gaze upon me, and I remember that he _can_ see in the dark.

I resist the urge to cover myself or pull down the hem of my chemise. "Do you not… is there something about _me_ that…" I cannot find the right words, or maybe it is that I cannot force them past my lips.

His hands spasm, and then he is sweeping me into his arms, his embrace crushing. "You are _everything_ to me, Christine, an exquisite creature who, this night, has given me more than I could have ever hoped to receive from you." He kisses me fiercely, his lips devouring mine, and I let myself be taken away by his lips and tongue. While he will allow me to do so, I stroke the deformed portions of his face, relishing the feel of the dips and valleys that are simply him.

He softens his kiss to soft strokes of his lips across mine, and when he pulls back, I know what he will say.

His voice, his lovely voice, is hoarse with emotion. "I cannot take more from you than what we have already shared, Christine. You should… you should give yourself to your husband on your wedding night, not to me. I would not spoil you with myself."

I hate these words he speaks; I hate them because he believes them to be true.

I place a finger upon his lips, feel the smooth side intermingled with the distended. "Erik, how dare you say those horrible things about someone I love."

"You-"

I cup his face and stare where I think his eyes might be, knowing he can see my sincere expression. "Erik, I love _you_."

He shudders. When I lean in to kiss him tenderly, I can feel the dampness upon his cheeks. I do not want to cause this sadness in him. Too long he has wept for times we could have spent together, and I shift closer to kiss his tears away.

"We can go slow if that is what you need," I tell him, "but I _do_ want this from you, only you. I want you to be my first." _And only_ , I think but do not add. I am not ready to confess those thoughts here in the dark when I cannot see his reaction.

He strokes my curls from my face, and I let him spend a long moment reacquainting himself with my neck and shoulders, the length of my arms. He bends his head to kiss the column of my neck, and I tilt my chin up to give him better access. He nips and sucks my pulse there, his hands traveling down my waist to my hips.

Then he gently pushes me to my feet. I frown, unsure of his intentions as he turns me away from him. I suppose if he needs to wait, I will be willing to do so, but I feel a sharp tug at the base of my corset and again in the middle, and the contraption loosens from around me.

Oh. _Oh_.

My breath quickens again as his nimble fingers tug and loosen the ties of my corset. I aid him by finding the clasps that pin my corset to my stockings. And then he undoes the metal clips in the front, and the corset is freed from my body. I hear him lay it beside him on the bench, and his hands are upon me. My chemise clings to my body, molded there by the tight corset, and his palms are warm as they cup my breasts through the thin linen. He feels the shape of me, the mounds heavy within his broad hands. My nipples tighten at the roughness of the fabric dragging across them.

"E-Erik," I gasp.

His urgency grows, and he unties and yanks down the top of my chemise. I feel the cool night air hit my bared skin, and I shiver until he replaces his warm hands, this time skin against skin. He groans and pulls me flush against him between his knees, and I can feel him hardening again. He drags his mouth across the bare blade of my shoulder as his hands, his wonderful musician hands, heft the weight of my breasts. The roughness of his fingers thrills me. He finds my nipples and thumbs each before giving them a tentative pinch.

In response, I unconsciously rub my backside against him, tossing my head back onto his shoulder. He pulls and pinches and grazes across those two peaks of my breasts until I am growing weak. He seems to sense this, his hands leaving me bereft as they travel downward to divest me of my chemise. Untying my drawers, he shoves those down as well until I stand before him in nothing but my stockings.

His deft fingers graze across the swell of one of my buttocks as he sucks in a shaky breath. And then he is lifting me into his arms and lowering me upon my spread cloak in the aisle, my hair fanning like a halo around me.

His mouth is upon me, his clothing scratchy across my body, his kisses soft and reassuring, and I relax. His touches are slow and tentative, as though still afraid I will disappear at any moment, but he grows bolder with every stroke and press. His kisses carve a silky path down my neck, across one mound, and finally, _finally_ his firm, thin lips find one of my nipples, encasing it within the hot dampness of his mouth. He tongues the peak and draws it between his teeth, scraping lightly, and I run my fingernails across his scalp, encouraging him.

I protest with a little noise of frustration as he leaves my breasts behind and kisses down my belly, but I feel his lips curl. "I know you tasted me," he purrs darkly against my hip bone. "I wonder if you taste as sweet as your kiss."

He brushes his lips across the upper portion of my inner thigh, and suddenly, I am aware of what he is about to do seconds before he sets his mouth upon me. His hot breath makes me shiver, and his first touch between my legs causes me to bite my own knuckles against the overwhelming onslaught of lips and tongue and warmth and moist strokes. My thighs fall open around his broad shoulders, the linen of his shirt scraping the backs of my legs.

I am building to another crescendo, standing on the edge of a precipice, when I feel him dip a finger within my folds. He curls that long digit, the rough pad rubbing along the upper ridge within me, and he has to lay his other hand across my belly to keep me still. Once I have saturated his finger, another joins the first, a tighter fit this time.

The sensation is not exactly comfortable, but his nimble fingers caress as he swiftly learns just how to make me buck beneath him. Soon, the path is slick with my own fluids, and when he moans against me even as he devours me, I am soon aching for more.

I reach between my legs and tug a bit upon one of his ears. "Erik," I whimper. "P-Please."

I jerk on the collar of his shirt for him to rise up the length of my body. He does so, tucking damp kisses along the underside of one breast, my collarbone, my neck, before chastely kissing me. I lick at his lips, tasting an odd tanginess that must be… myself.

I am soon distracted by the pulse of his manhood against my belly. I blindly unbutton his collar, and in response, he moves to my side and sits up. I hear the soft rasps of clothing shifting in the dark, and then he returns. The shock of his bare torso against mine makes my mind buzz. I eagerly map his skin, finding scars along his upper arms and what parts of his back I can reach. I wish I could trace those raised marks with my lips, to soothe each memory and replace it with a new one.

But now is not the time for the past. I reach down to unbutton his pants once more, and his fingers aid me, and finally, he is as naked as I am. My knees rise to admit him between them, and we kiss, his hardness pressed between our bellies.

He leans his weight upon an elbow and reaches between our bodies. I feel the point of him nudge at my folds, the head slick with my own fluids.

"Christine," he rasps. And then he presses forward.

It hurts, _oh_ , it hurts. The pain takes my breath away. I expected it, had heard of how a woman's first time might go, but this piercing deep inside causes tears to leak out of the edges of my eyes. Erik is there, above me, kissing them away even as he continues his slide until he is fully seated inside me.

He speaks nothing more than my name, and for that I am grateful. I focus on his hands and lips flitting over my body. He spreads kisses along my neck as his fingers create magic on the tips of my breasts. He again finds the little point of pleasure just above where we are joined, and I begin to squirm under him, needing more than this sensation of being utterly filled.

He pulls back, flesh dragging on flesh, and surges forward again, oh-so slowly. This time, the piercing pain recedes, leaving behind a burning ache. His hips undulate against mine again and again, the push-pull of his body within my body gradually easing into something more akin to pleasure as desire builds again. I want more, need more, and I pull my legs upward to give him more space to drive more deeply. With a groan, he does so, and I feel like I am being consumed from the inside out.

I speak his name and he speaks mine. Our arms encircle each other, holding each other close even as his hips increase their pace. Soon, the sound of skin slapping skin fills the car, and I do not recognize the whimpering mews emerging from my throat. My nails dig into his back. I remember his scars and draw away, but he murmurs "yes, more" against my throat, and so I willingly cling to him.

All too soon, it is over. He slams once, twice, deeply within me, and I feel a flood of warmth inside. I squirm against him for more friction as he collapses atop me, his back slick with a sheen of sweat. Soothingly, I trail my fingers up and down his back, but before I can say anything, he slides free of me, dips down, and presses his tongue between my legs.

I cry out a protest, feeling the messy wetness there, but he seems to care not. He delves three fingers within me without hesitation, suckles hard against the sensitive ridge of flesh, and I immediately follow him over the edge, the explosion intense as a tidal wave washing over me.

As my tremors ease, he lays beside me in the darkness. I turn to bury my face against the warmed skin of his chest, the sparse hairs there tickling my nose. I let the scent of him wash over me, stirred alive by his exertions. I want to lay here for eternity.

But he stirs, rising and leaving me cold. He presses a kiss to my shoulder, and then his presence vanishes from the passenger car. One of the exits of the cabin opens and closes softly, and I know he has ventured outside.

I pull the edge of my cloak over my body, shivering against the sudden rush of cold night air. My thoughts spin in a million directions, but he soon returns, his footsteps upon the carpet quick and determined.

"Forgive me, this is cold," he murmurs a moment before he swipes a wet cloth between my legs. Even though goosebumps appear over my arms, the cool dampness is soothing to my inflamed skin. I sigh happily.

Soon enough, he returns to my side, tucking me within a cocoon of my cloak. We do not speak, but there will be time enough for talk later. He lazily pets the edge of one of my silk stockings, which I still wear. Exhausted, I can barely tell when my eyes close in sleep.

When I awake, it is daylight. The curtains are still tightly drawn, but even the thick fabric cannot keep out the bright sun outside. I sit up, pulling my cloak around my naked shoulders, and look around the car, blinking against the light after being so long in the dark.

Erik is gone.

I try not to let this worry me. There are many reasons he might have stepped out. I dress, a slow and difficult feat by myself, but I manage. My clothes feel stiff and uncomfortable. I am sore, but not as sore as I expected. Even after I have dressed, he has not returned. I reattach my cloak at my neck and pull it around me, settling on one of the benches to wait.

I do not know how long I slept last night, but it must have not been long. I doze until I am awakened by quiet footfalls. When I crack open my eyes, I see a small tray of pastries, fruit, and cheese resting by my side. A morning meal from Madame Giry? When I straighten up, I catch sight of Erik sitting near the front of the passenger cabin, stiff and straight-backed on the bench seat.

I am parched, so I nibble on a few grapes before standing.

He has positioned himself so that the twisted side of his face is opposite of the aisle. He wears a wide-brimmed hat pulled low on his forehead and a black tailcoat that is too tight across his spacious shoulders. I know not where he got the clothes, but seeing how we are parked on the outskirts of a train station, I can imagine.

When I come to stand next to him in the aisle, his eyes flick to my face and back to his hands, which are clenched spider-like across each of his thighs. I realize I have never seen him in daylight, this man who has existed only in shadow. His eyes, which have always seemed so dark brown, are golden in the sunlight.

He speaks, tones velvet and smooth. "I gave you ample time to leave."

Has he not been paying _any_ attention? I came here alone last night, searched and searched in the dark until I found him. I let him strip me bare, gave him my heart _and_ my body, and he thought I would pick up the pieces of myself and _leave_?

My nostrils flare as I suck in an angry breath. I hardly know what I am doing as I raise my hand and bring it across his perfect cheek with a loud smack. He catches my hand in the steely cage of his fingers, glaring up at me, but ah, the self-pity is gone from his gaze, replaced by heated anger. Good, I would rather take his anger than his doubts about my intentions.

"Do you think so little of me," I scowl, "that you believe I would flee from you rather than face you in the light of day?" With my free hand, I tear the hat from his head and toss it away.

He still wears no mask, and now he is fully exposed to me, the reality of his deformities stark in this harsh morning sun. His eyes skitter across my own face, reading my expression, and jump around the cabin as he seems unable to process what he finds. I grip his chin and tilt his face up, then bring my mouth crashing upon his.

If I am expecting any hesitation from him, he does not give it. He groans against my teeth with all the enthusiasm of last night, his hands finding purchase on my hips and dragging me against him. I raise a knee to the bench beside him, trying to bring us closer still, and then he is fumbling with the hem of my skirts, raising layer upon layer, fingers snaking between my legs to find the slit of my drawers.

At the same time, my hands unbutton his trousers, untie his undergarments, and pull him free. By the time we manage to position me astride his lap, he is fully hard and straining for me. My skirts billow around us like gentle waves of dark blue satin, and he jerks his hips upward, plunging inside of me. I am wet and waiting for him. Even though I expect pain once again, there is only a little discomfort. The fullness delights me, and although I am unsure how to move in this position, my hips seem to know what to do.

One of his hands is under my skirts, cupping my backside to encourage me to slide back and forth. The other flicks open the top buttons of my bodice so he can latch his lips to my throat, lapping at my pulse and dragging his teeth along my collar bone. I toss my head back, my curls falling freely to my waist. As I rotate upon him, he tilts his hips upwards, and that sensitive nub between my legs grinds with delicious friction. We are frantic with our movements, our fingers bruising as we drive each other to completion.

As soon as I lose control and begin to tremble around him, he wraps his arms around my waist and thrusts inside of me deeper than before. Then he freezes, and I hold him close as he shudders and finishes with a few quick pumps.

Lazily, we drag our mouths against each other. He caresses the thick locks of my hair while I smooth his sparse strands that seem paler in color in daylight.

"Christine," he whispers, still buried deep inside me even as he softens. "I love you."

I pull back and fix him with a brilliant smile. I trace both halves of his face, one normal and smooth, the other twisted. All I can think is _mine_. I kiss the moisture gathering at the edges of his golden eyes, and rub my sex against him. The answering rumble that emits from his chest thrills me.

"Shall we catch a train, my love?" I ask, blinking my long lashes innocently at him.

He stares up at me, the adulation I see in those golden depths overwhelming. Then he fumbles around in his waistcoat pocket, pulling out a golden ring with a black stone. I know this moment is for him more than me. I need no ring to prove that I am his, but too long he has lived without certainty in his life.

Silently accepting all he has to offer, I raise my left hand.

 **Fin.**

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